Gaara's Love
by Enith
Summary: A moment in time between Gaara and his love. Written from the perspective of the person who loves Gaara most. You can choose who the narrator is (it could even be you!).


Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto

Gaara's Love

I step into Gaara's office at lunch, as is our routine, but today things a slightly different. There are a few diplomats still hovering though they are making preparations to leave, their toadies running around picking up scrolls and standing at elbows with vapid looks of admiration and hero worship on their faces as they stare at there respective bosses.

Gaara is ignoring the lot of them, sitting at his desk writing something with paintbrush and ink. As I walk towards the desk I nod politely and return a few comments. I hear the thinly veiled barbs and jabs they make as they filter out of the room. Some want to engage in longer conversations with me, but I am too distracted to respond properly to those who are talking because I am watching Gaara with more and more concern as the conversations continue. Eventually the last person leaves and I am left with Gaara, his face nearly blank except for the focused determination he is putting into writing.

Even though is brow is not creased I can sense the anger and frustration radiating of him as his pale green eyes burn into his work. His soft rounded face betrays so little of what he is feeling, but the tightness around his eyes makes my chest tighten in empathy. Before I have had time to think I find that I have gently laid my hand over his, removing the brush, and my other hand is on his smooth rounded cheek. He looks up at me then and leans slightly into my touch.

"Don't bother with them," I say trying to erase that tension that I see in his face.  
His eyes widen as if to ask, how did you know?, and I feel the smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth as I seat myself across from him. Soon both of my hands are cupping his face and our brows are touching as I tell him, "Everything is fine. Those people don't matter."

How could they matter when I am with him? I can't even remember what they had been talking about. All that matters is this man with his beautiful child-like face in my hands

I place my cheek alongside his to whisper in his ear. I can feel the heat of his soft unblemished skin against mine, and for once I don't care that my cheek must be rough and coarse by comparison. All I care about is that he hears the words I am trying to say. These words are for him and his ears alone.

"I love you"

And then we are kissing. Words cannot describe the kiss because it is so much more than just a kiss. It is communication. Affirmation of our love. He has not said a word and yet I hear his response loud and clear as his lips and tongue brush against mine. Or at least that is what I think, but then we are pulling away, panting for breath.

As my senses clear I find that my hands have found their way to his shoulders. I pull back farther and allow my hands to drift down his arms. His right hand grips my lower arm, halting an further progress and my left curls around his arm in turn. My left hand, however, travels unhindered all the way down to cover his right, which is curled tightly around something. I can feel the slight frown on my face as I look down at our hands. There should be no tension now, it is just us in this moment. I gently squeeze his hand and make calming circling motions with my thumb. I am rewarded as his grip relaxes slightly under my hand.

I look back up at him with another smile tugging at my lips about to say something to him, but my mind blanks when my eyes meet his. There is nothing in this world more breathtaking than the warmth that I see there. To my continued shock, his mouth begins to move. He is speaking to me in that soft voice of his. The voice he only uses around me.

"...they need to know that I love you as well." are the last words he says and are the only ones I hear, as he slowly releases his hold of me and the object and pulls away to stand up. My left hand falls on to object he was gripping a moment before. The small box is covered in a soft faberic and is still holds the warmth from his hand. I raise my head to ask Garra about it, but has now turned to look out the window with a look of faraway contemplation. I know he is distancing himself from possible hurt. He still cannot handle emotional pain. That knowledge gives me strength to pick up the box and look inside. A ring.

"With this ring I do thee wed."

A/N I would love to hear which character you think is best suited to be the narrator of this piece. Honestly, I am not sure who it is, but if someone has a favorite Garra/... pairing that they would like me to write as the lead in to this piece please tell me. If you made it this far I would also love you to drop me a line. I don't care if the review is signed or unsigned, and I don't care if it is constructive criticism or flamy flames of hate. I just want to know what people think of my writing. Oh, and if you are reading this years after I posted it, I still want to hear from you as well. 3


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